Daisy A Day
by Austin and Ally Go 1 Direction
Summary: It didn't matter if she was a maid - he would always love the girl with the daisies in her hair. A Cinderella-esque AU Sherlolly One-shot.


**A/N: Alright, so this is kind of a Sherlolly Cinderella-esque AU, heavily influenced by the folk song A Daisy A Day. As always, the characters belong to BBC and ACD.**

 **Hope you enjoy!**

 **/**

The first time Sherlock saw her, he nearly swooned.

Her long brown tresses were pulled back into a tight braid, and her non-descript brown dress was too large for her, and completely unflattering – typical of a scullery maid. But it was her eyes that nearly stopped him, the most beautiful brown eyes that he had ever seen, filled to the brim with intelligence and curiosity.

That, and the fact that she was in the middle of cutting open a dead rat.

As was mentioned; he nearly swooned.

Of course at the time that was impossible, as he was in the middle of running from his best friend, who was also, unfortunately, tasked to find him and drag him back to the confines of the palace. Which, knowing John, he would do so quite happily _and_ literally.

So instead of swooning, Prince William – disguised in stolen rags as Sherlock – ducked into the alleyway beside the strange but wonderful girl, and promptly squatted beside her, his back to the mouth of the alley. She looked up sharply at the presence of another person, her eyes widening in fear.

Sherlock raised a finger to his lips with pleading eyes, a signal he knew from his Homeless Network was universal among the lower classes.

True enough, the girl promptly shut her mouth and bent her head back down to look at the rat again, just in time for another round of guards – _he thinks he can hear Anderson's irritating whine –_ to pass. He immediately let out a sigh of relief.

"Thanks," He shot her a crooked grin. "Thought they were gonna catch me. I'm Sherlock."

The girl's eyes briefly flitted over his figure. She appeared to be about two years younger than him, so he put her around twelve.

"Molly," She finally admitted. "What did they want you for?"

 _Oh, you know, the usual. More etiquette lessons and boring dinners,_ he thought to himself. Gathering that she didn't recognize him as the second Prince, however, had Sherlock wisely keeping it to himself. Instead he replied with, "Saw me pinching a loaf of bread."

The girl – Molly – seemed to think nothing of it, and went back to her rat. It was only then that Sherlock noticed the piece of metal in her hand. It was crooked, and dull beyond belief, but he could recognize one anywhere. After all, he had learned to wield such an instrument nearly at the same time he learned how to use a fork.

"Is that a scalpel?"

 _That_ caught Molly's attention, as her eyes quickly flicked back up to the boy across from her. "What's it to you?"

Unbeknownst to Molly, one of the few studies Sherlock excelled at – much to the chagrin of his tutor, Mrs. Hudson – was science. Although he had more of a liking towards chemistry, biology quickly followed suit.

"I like science," He admitted vaguely. "Read a few books."

Those beautiful brown eyes widened in excitement. "You can read? Can you teach me?"

Sherlock was taken aback. "You aren't literate?"

That made her blush and go back to the rat.

Sometimes, Sherlock wanted to kick himself. Of course she wasn't literate – she was a scullery maid, after all. And a busy one, going by the state of her attire.

"I mean," He tried again, "I'd be more than happy to teach you, if you'll tell me where you got the scalpel from."

Molly hesitated a moment. Finally after what Sherlock could've sworn was an eternity of lip-chewing she mumbled, "I'm a scullery maid at the morgue. Sometimes Dr. Stamford needs an extra hand with his autopsies, just fetching clean bowls and thread and stuff. He says one day I might even be good enough to do one all by myself. So I pinched this old scalpel out of the garbage and have been practicing on dead rats from kitchen traps."

It was the most he had heard her speak, and it sent a thrill through him. Finally! Someone else with intelligence interested in something useful! Sherlock knew Dr. Stamford himself from his once in a blue moon visits to the mortuary when either hiding from John and Lestrade, or fetching parts for his own experiments. He wasn't sure what he was most impressed with – Dr. Stamford for willingly letting a female, one who was barely more than a child at that, hang around a dead body, or Molly, for _wanting_ to hang around a dead body.

Either way, Sherlock smiled at her. "Perfect," He declared. "Let's be friends. I'll teach you how to read, and we can do experiments together."

Molly's smile was a little more hesitant as she enquired, "Experiments?"

"Just small things," Sherlock said. "I know where to get some chemicals, and from there it's trial and error," Finally he hesitated, his smile faltering. "You would like to be friends, wouldn't you?"

Molly vigorously nodded her head. "Oh of course! It's just that I've never had a friend before. Being a maid, and cutting up rats in one's free time will do that, I suppose," She joked. Sherlock smiled.

He reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a crushed daisy. It had been for his mother, a silly thing that had caught his eye, and had made him think of her. Instead, he proffered it to Molly, who took hold of it hesitantly. Her blush disappeared into her collar.

"T-thank you?"

Sherlock felt his own ears turn red as he shrugged. "It's nothing. Mummy always says to give pretty girls something nice to remember you by."

If possible, Molly blushed even more. "Well, thank you then. But I'm afraid I haven't anything to give you," She lamented.

Sherlock shook his head. "Promise you'll meet me back here tomorrow, and I'll consider us even," He smiled cheekily. Her smile softened as she immediately nodded.

"I finish my chores at two, so I can be here at quarter past."

"I can't wait, Molly," Sherlock admitted, going to stand, knowing he had to get a move on before the guards came back. "See you tomorrow," He told her.

"See you tomorrow," The girl with the scalpel, the dead rat, and the daisy replied.

/

After that first meeting, the two quickly became fast friends, meeting nearly everyday in the alleyway, before heading off into the depths of the city. And everyday Sherlock brought her a new daisy, even sending her one through his Homeless Network, on days he couldn't escape the confines of the palace.

Molly proved to be adept at learning, and within a year was reading proficiently enough on her own. True to his word, once Dr. Stamford learned that Molly could read, he began giving her medical texts to study. She was still nothing more than a scullery maid, but she was a _happy_ scullery maid.

Sherlock never did tell her that he was the second Prince.

Several times over the course of the year, especially earlier on, he almost blurted it out, the need to stop keeping secrets nearly killing him. But in the end fear always held him back.

At first, it was a self-preservation instinct – he had been sneaking out of the palace since he was nine, and not once had he ever told anyone. As second in line to the throne, the only public appearances he had to make were always from a distance, and were few and far in between. Only those of the upper class had ever interacted with him, and they certainly never came into the bowels of London.

Prince William was an eccentric child, leaning more towards the weird end of the spectrum, according to most Nobles when they thought he was out of ear-shot. He was quiet, and well-behaved enough, though he rarely interacted with anyone save his parents and his older brother, and a few close acquaintances – his tutor, Mrs. Hudson, his best friend John who was nearly ten years his senior, and a member of the palace guard, and Lestrade, who was captain of said guard.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was a whole other being.

Dark curls, which were always slicked back on Prince William if his mother had any say in the matter, bounced freely and covered his ears. He wore simple rags instead of fine clothes, and almost always had a smudge of dirt on his cheek. His face was happier, he smiled easier, and his eyes were just more _alive._

Most importantly though, no one ever treated Sherlock like a pariah.

For unlike Prince William, Sherlock was just a normal boy like all the rest, who was allowed to play as he pleased with whomever he pleased. He was still weird, but at least he was accepted. He made friends with other boys his age. Most importantly, he made friends with Molly.

And Sherlock would be damned, if he ever lost that privilege.

And so weeks ticked by, which turned into months. And as time passed, Sherlock's fear of Molly not just leaving him, but also _hating_ him for not telling her, grew stronger and stronger, until Sherlock had no choice but to lock the traitorous voice up in a corner of his mind, and separate Sherlock and Prince William for good.

Molly, of course, was none the wiser concerning her friend's dilemma.

All she knew was that Sherlock was a paperboy for a rich family, and could almost always get time off during the day, once his initial work was finished. She never asked where he learned to read, assuming he had simply picked it up, dealing with the papers and all.

And that was all Molly really ever needed to know. Because the most important thing was simply that Sherlock was a good person who actually _liked_ her.

And she would be damned if she ever scorned such a friendship.

/

"M'lady," Sherlock smiled, offering Molly her daily daisy. Said girl – more of a woman now, really – giggled in response.

"Why thank you, kind sir," She took the daisy and deftly wove it into her braid, where the past three days worth of flowers already sat. "You look a bit cleaner today. Did you actually-" At this point she mock-gasped, "-Wash yourself?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes good-naturedly. He was actually expected to wash daily, or else Mrs. Hudson would give him quite the scolding. Normally before he left the palace, he took care to run through the coal house. Today however, he was too eager to bother.

"Perhaps," He raised an eyebrow, a smile stretching across his face. "After all, it is a special day."

"It is?" Molly asked, her brow scrunching with confusion. "I don't recall."

"I don't suppose you would," Sherlock smirked, "What with how busy you've been these last few days."

Molly's eyes lit up. "Oh of course! There's a special welcome ball for the Royal family of Bohemia tonight, isn't there?"

Internally, Sherlock rolled his eyes. Only a commoner would think of a welcome ball as _exciting._

"Yes, but that's not what I'm talking about," Sherlock smiled, handing her a box he had hidden behind his back. "Happy name's day, Molly. You're officially of age."

Molly faltered for a moment, before a smile bloomed on her face. "You remembered?"

This time Sherlock really did roll his eyes. "More so than you, evidently. Go on, open it. We haven't much time if we plan to leave the city."

"Leave the city?" Molly questioned, fingers working to open the box, "Why would we leave the-"

She cut off with a gasp. "Oh Sherlock, this is too much, I can't accept this!"

Inside the small box was a gorgeous blue frock. It was simple and elegant, just like Molly, in a beautiful blue that rivaled a clear summer's day. It was next to nothing, compared to most of the dresses women wore, but for Molly who merely owned two drab work dresses, it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

"Yes you can," Sherlock corrected her softly. "Every girl has at least a coming out dinner on their sixteenth year. And you deserve nothing less, Molly Hooper."

Molly didn't know what to say, as she looked up at her best friend, tears in her eyes and a smile on her face. "Thank you. But this must've cost you a fortune."

"It was more than worth it," Sherlock answered honestly. "Now hurry up and change, we have our own ball to get to."

Two hours later found the two teenagers outside of the city in an open field. Sherlock had brought a basket of food and a blanket, and they spent the afternoon running in the open air, and simply enjoying each other's company.

Molly truly felt like a princess, and Sherlock treated her as such. He had been right – the beautiful blue of the dress complimented Molly's complexion, and unlike any other article of clothing she owned, it hugged her womanly figure perfectly.

Sherlock was almost regretting that.

Right from the get go, he had always though Molly was attractive. The fact that the first time he had seen her she had been holding a scalpel and a dead rat, was just an added bonus. It was her intelligence that really did him in.

As they grew older, his appreciation for her talents deepened in ways he never knew could happen. She quickly proved that just because someone was uneducated, did not make them an idiot.

And he loved that about her, though not that he would ever admit it.

Growing older though, brought about some physical changes to the both of them. Sherlock's shoulders had broadened considerably, and he now stood nearly a whole head taller than her, his voice a deep baritone. Molly was no longer the twelve year old he had met four years ago either – at some point her face had lost it's roundness, and her body had developed curves.

Curves which Sherlock had not known were existent, until that afternoon.

It was ridiculous – he had seen many young ladies before, all more elegantly garbed than Molly was, with fuller bosoms and thinner waists. The Princess of Bohemia, Irene Adler – who was likely throwing a fit since he was a no show at her ball that evening – was considered the most beautiful woman alive.

And yet, she was merely but a flicker of a shadow, compared to the unearthly beauty of Molly Hooper, as she ran barefoot through the field, wind billowing her skirt around her, laughter filling the air, with his daisies in her hair.

Something warmed in his chest as she smiled teasingly at him, in a way he never thought possible. And as they wiled the afternoon away, her small hand tucked perfectly within his, an avid conversation about cadavers occupying them, Sherlock knew there was no other place he'd rather be.

Yes, he would get the scolding of a life time from his parents afterwards, for skipping such an important function, with such a beautiful Princess. But it mattered not.

Because Sherlock had found his own Princess, and he intended to keep it that way.

/

"And where do you think you're going?"

Sherlock cringed, quickly tucking the daisy that he had clipped from the royal gardens into his jacket pocket as he turned around. "John!" He exclaimed, a fake smile plastered onto his face. Unfortunately, John had known him since he was a mere child, and could tell when the nineteen year old Prince was up to something.

"Sherlock," John narrowed his eyes warningly. He was one of the few that Sherlock allowed to call him by his preferred middle name. "You better not be doing, what I think you're doing."

Sherlock batter his eyes innocently. "Going to my etiquette lessons, you mean?"

"Sneaking off again, Sherlock," John's tone held no room for funny business. "You need to start taking your duties more seriously. In two years time you'll be expected to produce an heir for your brother. You have to stop slacking."

Sherlock's upper lip curled in disdain. "I don't see why my brother's inability to produce an heir, immediately means I have to."

John rolled his eyes at his best friend's antics. "An heir is needed, Sherlock, and you're next of kin. I think you can figure the rest out on your own."

Sherlock scoffed, but he knew his future was sealed. While he actually quite liked Mycroft's wife, Princess Anthea, he was not overly fond of the fact that the one woman Mycroft chose to wed, happened to be barren.

"Please, John," Sherlock's voice turned pleading. "That's two years from now. At least let me live my life till then."

John softened under the young man's desperation, and clapped a hand on his old friend's shoulder. He had seen Sherlock through a lot in his life, and while the wayward Prince usually was the cause of John's early greying, he still cared for him greatly. "It's just marriage, Sherlock," He tried to lighten the mood. "It's not like you're dying."

"It's one and the same though, isn't it?" The young Prince pulled away, face a solemn mask. "Especially when the one you're forced to wed, is not the one who holds your heart."

John frowned at Sherlock's words, never having known him to be the sentimental type. But before John could enquire anymore, Sherlock was briskly walking through the hall once more.

It would only be hours later, that John would realize that Sherlock was cradling his daisy as he left.

/

Everything changed when Molly was eighteen.

In years to come, Sherlock would tell the story with a laugh to his children, who would giggle along with the antics of their father. But at the time, Sherlock thought the situation was anything but funny.

He was strolling through the market, looking to pick up some sweets for Molly and himself before they were expected to meet. He eventually settled with two sweet rolls from a small baker he had come to favour of the years of his escapades. Molly's daisy sat unblemished behind his ear.

After paying for the sweets, he quickly headed towards their designated alleyway. He only had an hour today, as his parents were putting their foot down when it came to his spare time. As it was, he practically had to beg John and Lestrade to give him an hour off, with the promise of swiftly returning and not a moment late.

He could deal with that. Even a minute with Molly was more than enough to brighten his–

There was another man with her.

Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest without realizing it.

Molly was looking as lovely as ever, her light brown tresses hanging loose about her face today, with only a single braid across the back – a braid that was tucked with four daisies, all in various states of withering. She was in her simple grey frock, the sleeves rolled to her elbows.

And a man was standing beside her, making _his_ Molly laugh.

His hand tightened around the bag of sweets.

"Molly," His voice came out in a terse clip, his back ramrod straight as he approached the pair. Both turned to him, a startled look on their faces, though Molly's quickly melted into a warm smile.

"Sherlock!" Molly was exceptionally bubbly. "This is Tom. He works down at the butchers."

Tom turned and offered Sherlock a small smile, those there was a hardness around his eyes that Sherlock was absolutely not going to tolerate. Molly was _his._ Sod what this Tom fellow thought.

"Are you two acquainted?" Tom inquired, though Sherlock could tell from the tightness in the other man's voice that he didn't really care.

Molly didn't seem to notice. Instead she merely laughed. "This bloke's my best friend, unfortunately," She tacked on affectionately, rolling her eyes as she looped her arm with Sherlock. Despite the circumstances, Sherlock felt a rush go through him.

However, something smug creeped into Tom's eye at the word _friend._ Sherlock didn't like it one bit.

"Ah, I see," Tom smirked. "Then I suppose you won't mind me asking Molly-"

"I do mind, actually."

His body moved without command, stepping between Molly and Tom. Sherlock thanked his lucky stars that he had an inch on the man, as he glowered down at him. Molly, thoroughly confused by his behaviour, and a tad flustered, tried to salvage the situation.

"Now Sherlock, be-"

"Nice?" Sherlock all but spat the word out. "How can you expect me to be _nice_ Molly, when this plebeian is obviously looking for nothing more than an easy fling before he disposes of you like yesterday's trash? I simply won't abide by it."

"Now listen here, you-"

"No, you listen," Sherlock cut the sorry excuse of a man off, his baritone a dangerous timbre. "If I ever catch you so much as looking at Miss Hooper again, I swear you will pay. Are we clear?"

"Fine," Tom scoffed and rolled his eyes. "You can have her. She's not even that pretty anyways."

Sherlock continued to glare at Tom, as he slunk down the street. It wasn't until his atrocious head of ginger curls disappeared around a corner, that Sherlock felt his body relax. He turned around with every intent to check on Molly –

Only to find her no where in sight.

Sherlock cursed under his breath, and immediately chased after the direction he presumed her to go. It didn't take him long to find her.

He merely had to follow the sounds of her sniffling. He turned the corner abruptly, into a quiet niche, tucked away from the bustle of the city. And there, sitting on the dirty floor with her face buried in her knees, was none other than his Molly.

His heart ached, as he heard her sniffle again.

"Molly?" He approached her slowly, crouching down in front of her, but too scared to reach out. He hesitated, feeling more out of his depth here, than he ever had as second Prince. "It's alright, he left. Why are you crying?"

"Are you serious, Sherlock?" Her voice had a harsh bite as her head snapped up, her eyes glaring despite the tears trickling from them. "Go. Away."

Sherlock physically flinched at her words, recoiling slightly, hurt painted across his face. "What did I do?"

She laughed. It was an ugly sound.

"What did you do?" Her voice was shrill. "Sherlock, you chased off a guy who liked me. Who had the potential to actually _want_ me. The real question is what didn't you do!"

Sherlock was taken aback. "But… Molly, he would've hurt you. You have to know that."

She wiped her cheeks harshly, smearing grime along the way. "And so what if I did? Sherlock, I'm eighteen, I enjoy discussing cadavers for fun, and to top it all off I'm nothing more than a scullery maid. I might as well be a spinster already, heaven knows that no man is ever going to want to marry me. Is it so wrong then, if I wanted someone to want me, even just for a little while?"

Her voice hitched on he last sentence, as a silence fell between the two. Sherlock didn't know what to do.

So instead he told the truth.

"But Molly, I want you. I've always wanted you."

She stared at him then, cold and hard, with a disbelief so thick, that Sherlock was surprised he didn't suffocate. So before he lost his nerve, he did what he had been dreaming about doing since he was sixteen.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers.

It was nothing special, and in all honesty, it was awkward, and new.

And yet for the both of them, it was more than they could have ever dreamed of.

Sherlock pulled away slowly, though he kept his face within a few inches of hers. He opened his eyes, not realizing that they had slid shut, similarly to hers. They stared at each other a moment more, the air tingling between them, sending a pleasant jolt down Sherlock's spine.

His hand came up, and wiped away the dirt and tears that were marring Molly's face.

She was crying again, though this time for an entirely different reason.

"Am I dreaming?" Her voice was barely a whisper on the wind. Sherlock couldn't sway his focus from her lips.

"If we are I never want to wake up," Sherlock admitted resolutely.

That made Molly giggle and shake her head slightly. Her eyes stayed locked on Sherlock's, as she shook her head hopelessly. "Where on Earth are we supposed to go from here?"

Sherlock offered her a soft smile. "I'm not sure," he admitted, reaching behind his ear for the flower tucked there. "Though as long as we're together, I shan't complain."

And then he gave to her a daisy.

And Molly Hooper gave to him her heart.

/

"Sherlock, why do you give me a daisy a day?"

"Well, at first it was to remind you about me. But now I give them as a promise."

"Oh? A promise?"

"Of course." A girlish giggle, as he planted a kiss on the tip of her nose. "It's a promise that I'll always love you. I'll love you until the rivers run still, and the four winds we know blow away."

/

The following year was filled with stolen kisses, and laughter, and love. Prince William was the happiest he had ever been, though no one could seem to pin point why. And the scullery maid down at the morgue, hummed happily as she worked.

They were still best friends first and foremost, which was likely why it worked. They met as often as they could, and would discuss cadavers and experiments and the absurd.

Sherlock would bring Molly a daisy a day.

And Molly brought him a happiness that he never thought he could have.

Life for Sherlock and Molly was perfect.

Which was why it was unfortunate then, that the lives of Prince William and the scullery maid had to interfere.

/

Sherlock was rudely awoken by his bedroom door slamming open, the curtains being tossed askew, and a half a dozen busybodies flooding the sanctity of his chambers.

He burrowed his head farther into the pillow, content with the thought that perhaps if he ignored them, they would ignore him in turn.

The clearing of a throat quickly botched that idea.

"Go away." He mumbled into his pillow.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you have three seconds to sit up properly, and I won't repeat myself. One. Two-"

With a sigh Sherlock groggily pulled himself into a sitting position, scowling at his mother and father who were standing at the end of his bed. His mother had her hands on her hips with a no-nonsense expression on her face, while his father looked to be hiding his amusement.

John and Lestrade stood behind them, neither bothering to hide their laughter.

Sherlock ground his teeth, shifting his glare from his friends to his mother. "Yes, mummy? Is there a reason you've so rudely awoken me?"

"Watch your tone young man," His mother flounced around the room, straightening things that were perfectly fine as they were. "Today is a big day, and you will not be running off anywhere, as you so seem to like to do."

Sherlock's eyes immediately shifted over to his pots of daisies by the windows, the tips of his ears turning red as he recalled exactly _why_ he was so often disappearing.

No one noticed but John, thankfully. His mother was too busy tidying his desk, and his Father and Lestrade were never the quickest at those type of things. John's eyes narrowed, but a quick glare from Sherlock stopped the questions before they begun.

"And pray tell," Sherlock returned his attention to his mother, who was now neatening a new suit that Sherlock hadn't realized had been laid out on his favorite chair. "What is so important about this day?"

This time it was Lestrade who rolled his eyes. "You ponce. Don't tell me you deleted your name's day."

Sherlock immediately froze at the words. _No._

"You did, didn't you," John laughed, mistaking his friend's distress. "Thank goodness the ball preparations weren't left up to you."

Sherlock was going to be sick.

Lestrade was wrong. He hadn't deleted his name's day from his mind. _He had been actively repressing it._

Because this year, was his twenty-first year.

This year, would be the largest ball since Mycroft came of age as Crown Prince.

And this year, _this night,_ he was expected to announce a betrothal to one of the invitees so that, within the year, he will have produced an heir for the kingdom. Today he was expected to say goodbye to Sherlock, the carefree, wayward Prince, and become William, advisor to the Crown. It was a big day – it was an _important_ day. One that he had known was coming since before he could walk.

So why did this all feel so sudden?

"That's enough lolly-gagging young man," His mother broke into his field of vision. "Mycroft and Anthea have already prepared this folder for you with potential candidates for you to sift through tonight. If you want to pick someone else at the ball that's fine, but we figure knowing you that it would be easier if you had a smaller crowd to choose from."

His mother deposited the folder onto his lap. It felt as though it was burning a hole in his skin.

"And remember, Will," His father finally cut in, his tone gentle and eyes sympathetic as he too had been in Sherlock's position once before. "You're doing the Kingdom a great service tonight."

Sherlock didn't care about the Kingdom. All he cared about was the scullery maid down at the morgue, who 1) wouldn't be attending the ball tonight, as she was nothing but a maid, and 2) didn't even know that Sherlock was the Prince anyways.

Never before had he felt such regret, as he realized that he should have told Molly who he was years ago, and had never let such a foolish charade last for so long. He had kept his identity a secret because he loved how Molly loved Sherlock, and not Prince William. And as time passed, he knew he couldn't tell her, without losing her – something he never wanted to have happen.

But in the end it didn't matter.

Because in the midst of being Sherlock, he had forgotten who he actually was. And his duties, as Prince William. From this night onward, it wouldn't matter if Molly hated him. Because he was to be betrothed to someone else. Someone who wasn't a scullery maid, with a macabre sense of humor, and daisies in her hair.

His mother reached forward and pinched his cheek. He made no move to stop her.

"My little man, all grown up," She smiled. "Greg and John will run you through your day. Your father and I will see you tonight, William."

And then his room was empty, save for his two friends. They could tell something was off – Sherlock was the type of person to openly share his complaints. But he did nothing more than wilt against his sheets, his eyes trained on his pots by the windows.

"Sherlock?" John prodded softly. "I know this is the last thing you want to do, but you're going to have to get up. It's a big day, full of changes."

"Yes," Sherlock echoed. "Full of changes."

He didn't send Molly a daisy that day.

/

"Ah Molly! There you are," Dr. Stamford entered the morgue, a smile on his rotund face as he approached the petite scullery maid.

"Sir," Molly questioned, pausing her task of cleaning up the scalpels from the last autopsy. "Can I help you with something?"

"Do you have any plans this evening?" He asked.

Molly frowned. Not officially, but she had thought that with Prince William's Betrothal Ball, that Sherlock might come and take her to do something, since those of the serving class weren't invited. It would've been a perfect opportunity to have the entire evening to themselves, except she hadn't heard a word from him, which was odd. Stranger still, she hadn't received a daisy yet.

That was causing her far more worry than anything else.

She bit her lip and shook her head. "No Sir. Just finishing my chores. May I ask why?"

Dr. Stamford smiled. "Well, Molly, the missus isn't feeling well this evening, so I have an extra invite to the Ball. You've done such a wonderful job helping out here over the years, and thought you were more than deserving of coming."

Molly blinked. "You want to bring me to the ball?"

"In short terms, yes," He smiled again. Molly gnawed her lip.

"I don't know if that would be such a wise idea, Sir. I'm a scullery maid, and the only subject I really know how to discuss involves cadavers, which I don't believe is very appropriate."

"Well," Dr. Stamford chuckled, "That is true. But to be honest Prince William leans more towards the macabre himself, and would probably be more than interested in your work here. We're somewhat acquainted, and if the Prince likes you, then who cares what others think? If I promise not to leave your side, will you come?"

Molly's thoughts flitted back to Sherlock. Perhaps he just got caught up with his own chores, with all the hullabaloo going on with the ball.

Besides, one night out as something other than a scullery maid could be fun, right?

She smiled at Dr. Stamford. "I'd love to come. And I even have a dress."

/

Sherlock really, _really,_ couldn't do this.

The ball was in full swing, music and laughter surrounding him. John and Lestrade were taking turns hovering at his elbow under the guise of protection. Sherlock wasn't fooled – they were both in actuality nothing more than his babysitter this evening.

He'd be offended if he wasn't too busy panicking.

So far he'd already met half of the potential ladies on Mycroft and Anthea's list, plus copious amounts of others. All had been nothing more than airheads, much like Janine Hawkins – the Princess of Wales, and the current person he was pretending to listen to.

Everyone wanted to talk to him. It was to be expected of course – not only was he of the Royal family, but this was also his _betrothal ball._ In other words, the hungry social climbers around him were circling like vultures, hoping for an opportunity to claim him for themselves.

Sherlock was intent on not letting that happen.

He really tried, at first, to try and find a potential bride. But the more and more he talked to the different ladies wrapped in silk and lace, he found himself more and more wishing for a maid wrapped in rags and daisies.

He banned that train of thought immediately, though he found himself still fingering the daisy he had in his pocket. It was stupid and sentimental of him to carry one, especially since he had made a conceited effort not to send it to Molly, knowing he would be doing nothing more than throwing salt in the wound. But the logic didn't stop him from picking one before he left to the ball.

/

" _I never did ask, why did you start keeping daisies, all those years ago?" John questioned as he led his friend to the ball._

" _As a memory," Sherlock carefully tucked the delicate flower into his pocket as they drew nearer to the noise. "And a promise."_

 _He surged forward, leaving John and his questions behind._

/

"I hate to interrupt, but I'm afraid that I have to steal my brother for just a moment." Sherlock had never been so happy to hear Mycroft's voice.

"Oh, well, I'll catch up with you later then, Will," Janine batted her eyelashes flirtatiously, and Sherlock fought the urge to vomit.

"Of course," He smiled at her. _Not._

"Well, don't you look dashing," Anthea reached over from where she was draped on his brother's arm, lovingly straightening the lapels of Sherlock's suit. "You're going to have no problem finding a girl looking like that."

Mycroft's gaze was more analytical. "I have a feeling that it's not the attracting of women that's the issue. Enjoying discussion with plebeians, brother dear?"

Sherlock scowled at his brother, earning himself a sharp nudge in the back from Lestrade, who was currently on make-sure-Sherlock-doesn't-run-away duty.

 _I wouldn't have to do this, if your wife wasn't barren,_ Sherlock viciously thought, but kept such a notion to himself. Despite how angry he was, he really did like Anthea, and he didn't want to cause her undue hurt.

It still didn't stop him from thinking it, though.

Instead he schooled his features and said, "Yes. It's absolutely _thrilling."_

Anthea gave him a look of sympathy. "Don't worry Sherlock, the whole kingdom is here tonight. You'll find someone to talk to."

Sherlock didn't have very high hopes, but he still smiled at his sister-in-law. "Well in that case, I suppose I should get back to it then. Good evening, brother mine. Anthea."

Sherlock quickly turned, and disappeared into the crowd. He heard Lestrade curse as he tried to keep up with him.

He talked to several other females, all for less than a few minutes, using the excuse of needing to converse with as many as possible to get out of in-depth conversations. At some point, Lestrade was relieved by John again.

Sherlock was relieved from his conversation with another boring girl, by a welcomed voice.

"Prince William! There you are. I just wanted to say hullo quickly, and introduce a friend-" Sherlock turned around, a genuine smile on his face at the promise of some intelligent conversation with Dr. Stamford, "-Molly Hooper."

Sherlock froze as he turned around, eyes wide in shock, no doubt mirroring Molly's.

His breath caught in his throat.

She was gorgeous – absolutely plain compared to the other women in their expensive frilly dresses. She was wearing the blue dress that he had gifted her with several years ago for her coming out name's day. She had only worn it twice since then – both on occasions where Sherlock took her out on a 'real' date. Despite it's age she had well-cared for it, and it still hugged her figure flatteringly.

Her hair was back in a loose braid, with three daisies weaved into it.

"Molly," He breathed.

"Sherlock?" Her brow drew together, eyes darting over his immaculate attire, and his shell-shocked expression.

John immediately perked up at the use of his private, personal name. "Sherlock?" He said accusingly at his friend. "Are you two acquainted?"

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention to John, or Dr. Stamford, who looked equally as confused.

"Molly, I can explain," He rushed out, stepping forward and placing his hand on her arm.

She flinched away.

"You're Prince William," She barely breathed, skin paling, and eyes tearing up in realization. "All this time. All these years. It's all been a lie."

"No," Sherlock took another step forward, his own eyes feeling damp in desperation. "It hasn't. I just-"

"Forgot to mention that you're the prince?" Molly spat. "And please, do tell. Were you going to break up with me before or after your wedding to someone else?"

Her words were like a ripple on a pond – immediately breaking any semblance of peace. Those in the direct vicinity stopped what they were doing to look aghast at the plain woman who dared accuse the Prince of such a thing.

John looked like he was about to have an aneurism.

Sherlock stared desperately at his scullery maid.

And then Molly Hooper stepped away from Prince William.

"Goodbye, your highness," Her voice was steely as she turned away. And in that moment, something crucial died in Sherlock.

Then Molly Hooper ran away.

/

A million and one emotions burned through her. Anger. Embarrassment. Pain. _Betrayal._ They were swirling around her, and she couldn't breath, couldn't breath, _couldn't breath._

Sherlock was Prince William.

They had known each other for seven years, and not once did he even allude to the possibility that he wasn't who he said he was. God, she must have looked like such a fool to him.

Molly thought she was going to be sick.

The sea of bodies that she was trapped in seemed to be an endless maze of colorful dresses and sneering faces. It was a mistake, her coming tonight.

Why had he not told her?

They told each other everything, or at least, she had thought they did. They were confidants, and best friends. Had it all meant nothing to him? Here he was tonight looking for a future _bride_ when just yesterday he claimed that even if the world stopped spinning that he'd–

" _I love you Molly Hooper!"_

The declaration stopped her hasty retreat. Those around her immediately moved away, as a hush descended over the ballroom. She closed her eyes as she heard him draw nearer.

A sob threatened to rip from her chest.

"I love you," He repeated, not caring that the kingdom was watching. His voice shook with a vulnerability he rarely let show. "And I am sorry. I wanted to tell you from the moment I met you, but I was scared, Molly. You were the first person who wanted me as Sherlock and not William. And I didn't want to lose that."

"So you lied to me," Her voice was weaker than she wished, but she turned to face him nonetheless. "Over, and over, and over."

He was only a few meters away now, and she could see him flinch at every word. "I didn't lie."

"Didn't lie?" She couldn't help but laugh mirthlessly. "Sherlock-"

"I didn't lie," He insisted once more, closing the gap between them with a single step that made her breath catch in her throat. "I might have concealed a part of my identity from you, but if you only ever believe one thing from me ever again, let it be this:

The man I am, the man you know, have always been one and the same. Prince William might be my title and station, but I have always been Sherlock. And every single one of my feelings for you have been genuine, Molly Hooper. I love you, and I'll continue to love you until the rivers run still and the four winds we know blow away."

He raised a hand, and carefully wiped the tears from her cheeks. She felt her bottom lip tremble as she leant into his touch, lost in the swirling depths of his eyes. "I love you too, Sherlock."

A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips. "In that case, Molly Hooper, I'd like to ask you a question," His eyes finally sparkled with the mischief she was ever used to seeing. "Would you do me the greatest honour, and allow me to be your husband?"

"I will," She laughed, tears falling for a whole other reason. "I always will."

"Then I will endeavor to be the best husband ever to live," Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, while he pulled the daisy out of his pocket, and offered it to the woman he loved. "I promise."

/

Sherlock and Molly went on to live many happy years together. Like any couple, they had their ups and downs, but they made it through them with a little hard work, and an endless amount of love.

Molly went on to fully study properly under Dr. Stamford, while Sherlock continued his studies in chemistry. It was an odd choice of work for a Prince and Princess, but absolutely perfect for Sherlock and Molly.

Their eldest child was born within a year of their wedding, and grew up to be the cleverest little girl the kingdom had known. Their son was born shortly thereafter, and quickly proved to have an adept mind when it came to literature.

Mycroft took the throne at their father's passing, and a few short years following, their mother left to join him. While the two brothers never ceased their bickering as time passed, there had also never been such a wise king and a trusted advisor to rule the kingdom before.

Sherlock never forgot to bring Molly a daisy every single day.

In the rain, and snow, when separated by oceans, or in the heat of a dispute, Sherlock always saw to it that Molly received a daisy as a reminder of his promise.

That he would love her no matter what.

Even when she was no longer with him.

And as generations passed, and a new era of children played in the alleys of London, occasionally they would see Old Prince William pass on by, a daisy in his hand.

For he always felt her love walking with him, and often he would smile at the things she might say.

Then Sherlock would walk to her gravestone.

And he'd give her a daisy a day.

/

 ***Edited May 22, 2017***


End file.
